


what did you say your name was again?

by perniciousOverkill



Series: his name is michael [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Death Threats, Emasculation, Epic gamer moments within, Force-Feeding, Forced apologies, Gaslighting, Hair Pulling, Ignoring as a form of punishment (kind of), Knifeplay, M/M, Medical Malpractice, Slapping, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence, Violent force feeding actually now that I read it back, and also pulling somebody across the floor by their hair, bad indistinct mushy grey food, breathplay?, bullying if you will, bullying over hygiene and stuff, chest injury, chest stomping, cheststomping... again...., degradation kink, dubcon elements, face hijinks, fleshey things, gagging, gagging on food though, hes choking on his food kind of a bit i guess, mean words, michael makes a hashtag mess and gets his ass beat for it, noncon elements, only half a beta read we die like men, ooc nice things happen, running away from people, some pogger shit too, thats it, the unconsensual peeling off of somebody's face mask thing..., tripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perniciousOverkill/pseuds/perniciousOverkill
Summary: Michael faces certain... consequences for what he did in the last chapter.
Relationships: Michael Shelley/Doctor David, Michael Shelley/Dr. David
Series: his name is michael [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910998
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	what did you say your name was again?

**Author's Note:**

> yada yada also have medical trauma so whatever
> 
> the fans have spoken and they said that i didnt up the anti enough in the last chapter so here's reparations for that i guess love u xox

Michael stares down at the food on the makeshift table in front of him, hands in lap. He looks back at the doctor. “I’m not hungry.”

Ever since their last interaction, Doctor David has been cold towards Michael, passive in their conversation. “I’m not allowed to administer medication on an empty stomach. If you don’t want to eat, we have other ways of making you do it.”

This is not the silent treatment. This is something… infinitely worse. Where there was once some kind of sick obsession, some unspoken need between the two of them, now there is only a doctor and a patient. Michael does not want to eat this food.

“I’m. Not. Hungry.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” The doctor growls at him, without moving an inch from his seat.

And they go back to the awkward silence, each man staring at the other. Michael pleads with his eyes; he pleads for the doctor to give him some sign that they can go back to how they were on his very first day here. The doctor’s eyes are stone cold, frigid as the fucking room. Michael is desperate, thinking of all the things he can do to incite some kind of reaction from his doctor.

He thinks about grabbing the plate in front of him and throwing it at the doctor, watching whatever he’s being fed drip down the side of his face. David would stand, huffing, as he slowly wipes it off, first looking at his hand, and then taking his time to look back at Michael. When he charges, he would blow right through the table, grabbing Michael by the neck and pinning him down into his cot.

He thinks about making a run for the door, the one he knows will not open. He would grab at the handle, shaking it and shouting for help with all (or maybe just half) of his might, and a hand would secure itself onto the back of his shirt collar, yanking him back into the room onto the floor. The doctor would stare down at him in all his condescension, and begin undoing his belt…

Or even better, Michael thinks about getting on his hands and knees and crawling on all fours over to the doctor, taking one of David’s hands in his and pulling up to meet his own face, melting into the touch. The doctor would play with a strand or two of Michael’s curls as he gets him off, whispering small comments about how perfect he is or how much of a filthy whore he is.

But instead he’s paralyzed. Instead, he sits there, eventually averting his eyes back down to the meal if only to try and alleviate some of the scalding tension in the room. He swears he can hear the sound of a clock ticking the seconds away, despite the glaring absence of any clock in here, or any time for that matter. It’s just him, the patient, and David, the doctor.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re trying to pull here-” The doctor starts, voice tense with frustration. “- but whatever it is, it isn’t going to work, and quite frankly, it’s not very amusing. In fact, I’m just pretty fucking tired of it.”

Michael gulps. He doesn’t have anything to say, so he goes back to the only thing he can remember. “I’m not hun-”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Doctor David has taken the plate in his hand and scoops up the food (probably something off-mashed potatoes) into his bare palm and storms up onto his feet. He grabs Michael by the back of his head and slams his hand down over Michael’s mouth. It doesn’t taste good. Michael starts gagging, trying to pull the doctor’s hand off of his face, but instead the hand that was behind him is now pinching his nose closed.

The doctor leans in as close as he can, and Michael can see his pupils shaking with rage. “Swallow it, or I fucking kill you.”

Michael can’t breathe, and he’s starting to get lightheaded, and at some point, between now and 30 seconds ago, he has started bawling, muffled by the doctor’s hand. As his vision finally begins to go spotty, he swallows the food down, gagging and threatening to vomit as he does so. The doctor lets go of his nose but keeps a hand over his mouth. It’s a small amount of relief- Michael realizes now that some of his breathlessness is not from the doctor, but from his own panic.

As his ragged breathing begins to calm, the doctor finally slowly pulls his hand off of Michael, wiping it down on his trousers. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Michael looks up at him, trying the best to make out the figure of the man through his own tears, and when he figures out where the doctor’s face is, he spits what is left in his mouth at him. His vision is too blurry to see it entirely miss the doctor, splattering on the floor behind him. Michael’s whole body is still shaking from his own crying.

A breath catches in his throat, and he starts violently coughing, bringing his fist up to his mouth to try and help. All the while, the doctor just watches him. Despite the distinct fat on his body, Michael looks weak; even better, he looks sickly and frail. The pale tone of his skin exposes all of the veins under his skin (which are starting to take on a more colourful palette than it used to have), and the bags under his eyes are now a weathered purple shade. The bruises on his chest have marred him in a rainbow of colour and have spread up to his shoulders and down through his hips. He looks like if you looked at him wrong, he might just wither away into a pile of dust. Doctor David recognizes that it’s a miracle he’s made it this long.

Michael’s coughing fit finally passes, and he looks back up to the doctor; there is food smeared on his chin and lips, and his mouth is agape as he weeps. The crying has come along with a clear and shimmery snot running from his nose, which has also been mixed in with the food bits on his face. His eyes are watery and bloodshot now.

The doctor takes a moment to size him up, and then reaches for him. Michael flinches at first but is shocked when two fingers tenderly caress the bottom of his chin, pulling his face up to look at his doctor. Doctor David is staring into his eyes, and for a moment, the spite disappears and is replaced with an honest curiosity. But this, like most other nice things in this place, is fleeting.

Michael sees the doctor pull up his hand before he slaps him but is too slow to get out of the way. The backhand nearly knocks Michael onto the floor as he crashes onto the bed, hands immediately flying up to cradle the side of his face. The pain is stinging and loud, and Michael does not know how to soothe it. It hurts more than the last time, and he doesn’t understand why it’s happened this time.

He cranes himself to look back at Doctor David through his fingers, whimpering as if to ask what he’s done to deserve such kind of pain. The spite in Doctor David’s yellow eyes has returned and seemingly has taken full control.

The eyes look Michael up and down, taking in all the details of his face and body again, and he can only utter one thing to him. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

Michael begins sobbing again, but the doctor isn’t done.

“Honestly- you just- how can somebody bear to be as filthy as you. I bring you a fucking meal and you reject it in favour of somebody shoving it down your throat? What is wrong with you? And now look at you… you’re absolutely pathetic. This-” He gestures up and down at Michael. “-is just pathetic. You’re so desperate for somebody to give you attention that you just let yourself become this disgusting. You try to escape a place where people only have your best interest at heart and now, you’re pouting because you’re not getting the attention you want. I hate to break it to you, but that’s not how it works here.”

Michael shakes his head. “It’s not true, you’re lying to me.”

“I’m lying to you?” The doctor asks with a tone of fake shock, one meant to mock him. “You’re lying to yourself. Nobody in here has lied to you once. My job is to tell you the truth, and the truth is that… you’re just a needy little pervert.”

The doctor steadies, going quiet, and the ambience now is Michael crying into the bedsheets, unable to muster any kind of defence for himself.

After some time like this, Michael feels the mattress sag under the weight of Doctor David as he sits down next to Michael’s fragile, shaking body. There are no words exchanged on his part though.

It takes a second for Michael to finally gather the strength to push himself up to a sitting position, looking over at the doctor.

“Why are you doing this to me?” His eyes look so very, very sad.

The doctor stares at him, carefully choosing his response. He is still furious with Michael, but he’s beginning to wonder how far he can continue to push Michael before he becomes somebody Doctor David is not interested in. “We do it because we care.”

Michael shakes his head no. “That’s not true; this isn’t caring.”

“You don’t think this is caring because you’ve never met a person who cares about you. That’s all. Truly, our institute gets nothing out of what we do. We make no money. We work for no government. We do it just because we care about making you better.”

Michael sniffles, beginning to slowly wipe his face clean.

“Don’t you want to get better?”

Michael nods now clean of all the food.

“Say it for me.”

“I want to get better, doctor.”

The doctor smiles at him. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Michael returns a weak smile, weighed down by his own exhaustion. They both drop their smiles, looking into each other’s eyes to gauge what the other one is going to do next. Michael thinks the doctor is going to leave, the doctor thinks Michael is going to drop dead on the spot from his appearance.

The doctor slides his hand around the side of Michael’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. Just a plain, honest kiss. As if on cue, Michael melts around the doctor, draping his arms around the doctor’s neck as he reciprocates the doctor’s kiss.

They are both quick to adjust, the doctor guiding Michael to lie down as he climbs over him. He presses one knee up between Michael’s legs, just teasing Michael’s cock. He moans a little bit into the doctor’s mouth at the feeling. One of the doctor’s hands moves to Michael’s waist, starting to slowly easy Michael’s shirt up.

Michael impulsively opens his eyes when he feels the cold air against his torso, and he means to immediately close them, but once again his eyes catch something peculiar. Right along the doctor’s hairline, there is a small outline where the skin splits from the rest, like a ripped seam. Michael’s heart skips a beat; that can’t be good.

He wants, more than anything, to close his eyes and pretend he hasn’t seen anything and go back to what has been the only moment of true intimacy since he got here, but the urge to know stops him from being able to. He takes the doctor’s face in his hands, pulling him only slightly away from his face, pretending to be taking in his face. There is a very subtle light in the doctor’s eyes that shows something very human within him, and Michael is about to strip that away. He traces his finger along the outline of his face, tantalizingly slow. He comes closer and closer to the little slit, and he thinks he’s going to throw up from the nerves. But he has to know.

His fingers brush over it, and the doctor’s eyes widen, but before he can do anything, Michael has slipped his fingers into the seam and ripped the doctor’s face clean off. There is a moment where both of them are frozen in shock, Michael holding Doctor David’s face in his right hand and staring into a squelching, undulating mass of flesh (which in its own way is staring back at him).

Then Michael drops the skin he’s holding and shoves the doctor off of him, jumping out of bed. The doctor growls under his breath; the rage is back. Once again, Michael has betrayed his doctor.

Michael sprints for the door, looking over his shoulder as he fumbles with the handle. The doctor is not getting out of bed, rather reaching for his face to put it back on. Despite what he previously thought, the door swings open, and Michael is able to get out of the room before the doctor is able to even get out of the bed.

Michael steps out into a long hallway, one that stretches into darkness down either side. He arbitrarily chooses to run to his left, screaming for help and banging on any door he sees as he runs. He can hear a door thud close, presumably Doctor David beginning his chase after Michael. Nobody answers Michael. The doors stay closed no matter how hard he pulls at them, and even when he throws himself against the staff room doors, nobody comes to open them.

He’s really fucked up this time.

Michael gives up on trying to find any room for refuge, opting instead to just keep running down the hallway in hopes of finding a proper exit. He sprints as fast as he can, the cold air fighting against him. The only thing that slows him is when he turns around to see how much of a head start he still has on the doctor. Not much apparently. The doctor is only a few feet behind him, not running, walking at his own pace. His face is back on now, but Michael feels like he can see past it all now.

In his looking backwards, Michael fails to notice a wood plank that has lost a nail, sticking up on an awkward slant, and predictably, his toe catches on it and he falls to the ground. At first, he cannot move, feeling the bruise from his previous fall send screaming signals through his body to stop. But the footsteps behind him are getting louder and louder now, so he wheezes his way up onto his hands and knees.

He flips over, seeing that the doctor is imminently close. He whimpers as he crawls backwards, looking up at the doctor whose face is now hidden by shadows. In fact, Michael is cowering in the doctor’s very shadow. Michael moves as fast as he can, but the doctor always seems to be only a foot or so away from him. He seems to be in no rush either, carefully stalking towards Michael with his hands hanging loosely from his pockets. Despite Michael’s best efforts to stay away, soon the doctor is right next to him, and kicks him down flat onto the ground with a foot to the chest.

The pain is blinding, and Michael can feel his ribs struggling to stay intact under the weight of the doctor, who is pushing down on Michael just a little… too… hard.

He is calm and collected on the surface, but Michael can see that wrath blistering inside of him. When he speaks, there is a small and subtle quiver in his voice that betrays how badly he wishes he were screaming at Michael, instead of talking down to him in his friendly doctor voice. “I hope you regret that.”

Michael snivels, unsure of whether he can even talk anymore. “I’m… sorry…”

“Hm.” The doctor acknowledges him. “You will be.”

The doctor leans forward just a little bit, and Michael gasps as he can start to hear his own ribs cracking. The pain coming from the bruised skin is pulsating and inescapable; it’s a pressure kind of pain, like a cluster headache or an ear infection. His hands shake as he tries his best to push the doctor off of him, but he can barely do anything to alleviate the building ache.

Just when he thinks the doctor is about to step clean through his chest, the pain is gone (not entirely; there is still a dull radiating throbbing). He looks up at Doctor David, and he feels absolutely no warmth coming from the body next to him. Without uttering a word, the doctor secures his grip in Michael’s hair and starts dragging him back down the hallway. Michael twists and turns, caught in an awkward middle between crawling on his hands and knees and scrambling on his side. He has to; he knows if he lets himself go limp the doctor will tear the hair straight from his scalp.

“Please- I’m sorry- Please let go of me- Please, I’ll do whatever you want just let go of me!” Michael’s words come out warbled from his crying. The doctor has nothing to say.

They pass Michael’s previous room and keep going. Michael is starting to slowly lose hope that he will ever be able to come back from this. The hallway is getting dark and more decrepit as they go, and now he can’t fathom what is in store for him. He continues pathetically pleading for just an inkling of mercy. He doesn’t get it though.

After what feels like forever, Doctor David hauls open a heavy metal door and throws Michael carelessly into it.

If the last room he was in was bad, this is the worst. The room is so cold that every wall and the floor have become damp with condensation. The metal pipes hanging precariously from the ceiling are rusted now, and you can tell from the distinct iron smell. The doors into the room are thick and cased in sheets of also rusted metal; the doctor is bolting them shut as Michael watches. In the room is one surgical tray (although Michael isn’t able to see what’s on it), a metal chair, and a shaky cot, one just a little bit more worn and torn than the one Michael was sleeping in before. This isn’t good.

Michael flips back up to a sitting position, backing up as Doctor David turns around. He starts sliding back away from him slowly, but it isn’t long before his back has hit the side of the bed, and there’s nowhere to go. He’s cornered.

The doctor is standing next to the surgical tray, grazing his hands mindlessly over whatever tools (or weapons) are perched upon it. His voice is unexpectedly sharp when he speaks to Michael.

“I’m honestly getting really fucking tired of you.”

Michael shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care anymore.” Doctor David doesn’t look at him, just flips between things on the tray. “Everybody’s sorry once they get in trouble.”

He picks up a scalpel, watching it glint in the light. Michael swallows hard, feeling himself begin to shake again.

“What did you think you would get from this little stunt, exactly?”

He rounds the tip of the scalpel through the air, drawing small semi circles. Michael stares down at his knees in shame.

“I asked you a question.”

Michael doesn’t look up. “I don’t know. I just wanted to… I wanted to know. I’m sorry.”

“Hm.”

The doctor starts advancing towards him, slowly, but surely. He lowers himself so he’s positioned over Michael, and Michael is trying not to pass out. He catches a sharp inhale when the scalpel teases his tee.

“I wonder- if I cut you open, could I see what it is inside of you that makes you so fucking…” The doctor doesn’t finish his sentence; he’s staring at the scalpel, and Michael is too, but each of them is doing so for a very different reason. Fear is climbing its way up Michael’s throat, inch by inch.

“Would you like that? If I just-” The doctor pushes a little harder, and Michael whimpers. He sits up and the doctor grabs him by the throat, shoving him back into the bed as hard as he can. “No, let’s not go getting any ideas. You might just get yourself hurt…”

Michael tries his best to still himself, but as the scalpel traces along his midriff, his stomach flutters, threatening to catch the edge of the blade. He can hear the doctor’s breath getting a bit more ragged, categorical in the way he increases the pressure, just enough that the skin begins to split, but releases before any real cut is made.

Without any warning, the doctor makes one clean slice from under his ribs down an inch or two. Michael stifles a shout, closing his eyes and trying to imagine that he’s somewhere else; he imagines himself back at the institute, mindlessly drifting through paperwork. These memories are fuzzy at the edges, and the more he tries to visualize, the greyer it gets.

He tries to sink into this world, but he can’t. He doesn’t know what it is. So, he opts for opening his eyes, the unfortunate nature of the real world settling back over him. The doctor is cleaning the scalpel off with his mouth, staring down Michael with a menacing smirk.

“I lost you for a second there.” He smiles. “And look at the mess you’ve made in the meantime.”

Michael looks down at himself and sees the blood seeping through the stark white clothing issued by Wonderland House; it’s dripped down through the tee and is now staining the waistband of his sweats. He gets a little dizzy staring at it.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, almost to himself.

“Sorry for what?”

Michael looks up at the doctor. He doesn’t want to keep talking. He wants to curl up and die. Doctor David gives him no rest.

“Tell me- what are you sorry for?”

“For making a mess.”

“Good.” The doctor looks his weaker counterpart up and down, sneering at the sight. “You’re so pitiful. I guess you can’t keep wearing these now.”

He turns on his heels, letting the scalpel clatter to the floor next to him. There’s a small shelf in the wall with bedding and such that he approaches, digging around through it for something for Michael to wear. Michael sits still, unable to muster up the strength to fight against his inevitable future here anymore.

A lump of clothing is thrown at him; he does not catch it. He does, however, take it in his shaky hands, unfolding it to see a pink miniskirt, the fabric shimmery and thin. The only other thing in his hands is a pair of lacy white women’s underwear. Surely there’s been a mistake.

He looks up to ask, but the doctor is now perched on the metal chair, nonchalantly leaned back. He eyes Michael before he speaks, making Michael only feel more exposed. “Oh, come on, surely you can at least change yourself?”

Michael gestures to the clothes in his hands. “I can’t… these are… these are for girls.”

The doctor isn’t fazed. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to go and ruin the only clothes you had in here.”

The only thing Michael can do is nod and push himself meekly onto his feet. His knees are unstable, wobbling ever so slightly. His whole body acts the same kind of unsteady as he slowly strips himself out of his clothing; the bruise and the new wound beg him to stop as he pulls his shirt over his head. He lets it all pool next to him. He takes his briefs and sweatpants off together, trying not to look at the doctor’s leering eyes as he places them with the shirt.

There are no words exchanged, but both of them have so many things they would like to say.

He pulls the skirt up first, figuring that it’s a little less humiliating to be in a skirt than to be seen straight on in ladies’ underwear. The doctor stifles a groan when Michael stands up in the skirt; it barely covers him, and the whole of his pudgy and soft thighs are now out in the open. He leans down again to put the underwear on, stepping in one foot at a time at an excruciatingly slow pace. As he steps in with his second foot, he has to stop himself from face planting as he stumbles forward.

The doctor laughs. “Look at you- so incompetent you can’t put your own clothes on…”

Michael’s face goes flush as he pulls the panties up his leg, pulling the skirt up in the process just a tad; just enough for the doctor to see the way the lace hugs his cock. Michael doesn’t look at the doctor, focusing his gaze as intensely as he can on the floor in front of him. He holds his hands together in front of him to try and provide a smidgen of modesty.

“Sit.”

Michael sits on the edge of the bed on command, still trying his best to avert his eyes. His whole body is aflame with shame (or maybe something else, but he can’t quite place anything as his chest pulses in pain). He can feel the doctor fucking him with his eyes, up and down and over his legs and arms and bare wounded chest. 

“Show me what’s under that pretty skirt of yours.”

And Michael is fuming as he pushes his legs apart for the doctor to see, hiking up the skirt over his thighs.

“You’ve become so obedient. Hm…” The doctor smiles. “And you’re so pretty like this. So pretty in your panties. And you just do anything I tell you… you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”

Michael feels himself start to strain against the lace against his better wishes, and Doctor David seems to notice as well.

“You’re getting off on this?” Doctor David starts laughing at him; this is an embarrassment of his own creation. “You’re so sick in the head. Really, you are. Look at you, all hot and bothered. Why don’t you do something about it?”

Michael doesn’t, just staring down into his lap, face burning.

“Come on. You’re so hard, do something about it.”

Michael’s resolve is quick to crack; he pulls his cock out of the lace panties, shutting his eyes tight as he begins to jerk himself off in front of the doctor. His shaky hands make him stay slow and sloppy, and he digs his knees into each other, trying his best not to involuntarily let out a moan. The doctor chuckles under his breath, carefully examining every inch of Michael, memorizing his every movement.

“Hmhmhm… you’re trying so hard right now, aren’t you?” Michael whimpers. “I hope you know that if you let yourself cum, you’re just gonna make things a whole lot harder for yourself.”

Michael stops, but the doctor has more to say about that. “No-no, keep touching yourself. I want you shaking. I want you to get yourself to a place so that I can just… touch you, and you cum.”

Under these new directions, Michael starts speeding up, swallowing his own breaths as they get shallower and shallower. The doctor’s arousal is obvious, but he’s not doing anything about it; just watching is enough for him.

Michael’s head tips back as he starts letting his pleasure roll off of his lips, voice soft and whiny. One hand sets itself behind him in the bed, supporting his weight as he arches his back. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to cumming, and he wants to let himself. His hand is moving rapidly now, and he’s biting his lip to hold back a long-winded squeal. 

Just as he feels his dick start to twitch, he gathers every ounce of self control he has and lets go, almost crying as he does so. He finally looks up, teary eyed, making eye contact with the doctor. He’s still smiling, smirking, and there’s an ever so slight blush on his cheeks.

Doctor David finally stands up, undoing the buttons on his shirt and slipping out of it as he approaches Michael (who is still quivering). He stands tall and proud, pulling Michael’s gaze up by his chin. He strokes over Michael’s cheek with his thumb, catching a tear before it falls.

“You did good.”

His other hand reaches down, unexpectedly teasing the head of Michael’s cock. He gasps, jamming his knees against each other again and curling his hands into tight fists. 

“So sensitive…”

The doctor pulls his hand away, and brings it up to Michael’s lips. Michael needs no directions, taking his doctor’s fingers in his mouth, eagerly sucking on them. He’ll do anything if it means somebody will take care of the aching and unsatiated arousal he’s feeling. When the doctor pushes his leg in between Michael’s legs, up as far as he can, Michael instinctively bucks his hips up against him, still taking his fingers in his mouth. 

Michael looks up, seeing the doctor’s eyes (and judgement) completely clouded over with something very primal. He pulls his fingers out of Michael’s mouth, caressing his cheek with only the slightest hint of intimacy or caring.

“Please, doctor…” Michael’s voice is dead quiet.

“What?” He leans in a little. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to touch me.” He pleads. “I want you to make me cum.”

“Hm. You were so well-behaved just now… maybe I ought to treat you a bit.” He leans down, peppering small kisses along Michael’s jawline. Michael’s eyes flutter shut; the doctor reaches back down for Michael, only teasing him the slightest bit. There is an awkward breath as Michael tries to keep all of the noises down. In response, the doctor takes Michael in his fist, moving up and down at a pace just fast enough for Michael to start feeling a knot rise in his stomach. 

Michael pants, rolling his hips back and forward if only to get a little bit more satisfaction. He’s already high strung- he’s so close to cumming already, and he’s trying his best to finish before the doctor-

The doctor lets go, and Michael lets out a long string of whines.

“What, you thought I was just going to let you finish?” The doctor tsks. “I haven’t quite forgotten your little stunt today...”

The doctor pushes Michael down and to the side so he’s lying on his back, and the doctor is situated comfortably over him. His kisses start moving from Michael’s collarbone in a soft line down his chest; when he kisses Michael’s belly, he pinches a little at his side. Michael yelps. The doctor grins against Michael’s skin. He stops when he hits the waistline of Michael’s skirt, and sits up. He’s making direct eye contact with a flustered and sweaty Michael as he wraps his fingers around the band of Michael’s underwear, slowly dragging it off of his body. Michael feels the pressure of the panties running against the length of his cock, and jolts just a little bit. 

He tosses them to the side when they’re off of Michael’s legs, and with only a little laugh as warning, goes down on Michael. Michael’s head falls limp backwards onto the pillow as the doctor’s lips wrap around his head, slow and deliberate. Two hands reach down, gathering the skirt’s fabric out of the way and taking the doctor’s hair in his fingers. No grabbing- no pulling- it’s just something to do.

Michael is weary from the previous denials, but he’s also ready. Within seconds he can feel an orgasm starting to rip it’s way through his body; he’s burning hot everywhere and tingling with sensations, and Doctor David is looking up at him, awaiting his next move.

“Doctor?”

David hums, prompting Michael to ask his question.

“Can I please cum?”

Michael can feel the doctor have to pause to smile before answering. “Mhm.”

Michael lets himself release, jerking his head up a little as he finally gets to finish. His moans are short and shallow and so very loud as he begs for the doctor to keep going; and he does. The doctor runs one of his hands up and down Michael’s inner thighs, drawing little figure eights, which only brings another series of cries from Michael. When the height of the sensation passes, Michael relaxes abruptly into the bed, chest heaving from his breathing. The doctor takes this as his cue to sit back up, watching Michael try and climb back down from his high.

The doctor guides Michael onto his stomach, Michael still reeling. He lets the doctor do it. He doesn’t resist when the doctor pulls his arms backwards by the wrists, wrapping something soft and leathery around them that keeps them together, and keeps Michael subdued. The doctor pushes Michael’s legs up so that he’s on his knees, chest down. 

He’s a little more gentle this time as he enters, Michael wilting against the doctor as he does so. This is something new- Doctor David takes his time speeding up, letting Michael adjust himself. This almost feels like… caring (or an extreme amount of self-control on the doctor’s end). Michael preens when he feels his doctor run a hand through his hair and down his back, taking in the way his skin is supple under his fingers, moulding to the touch. 

After a moment of this, David picks up a regular pace, and bends over Michael, reaching his around back to his cock to start working on him while taking him from behind. Michael wishes he could reach and touch him too; he wants to feel something. But he knows why he’s not allowed to right now. And he accepts it. He can’t help but close his eyes again, just letting himself feel what is happening to him. That’s all he can handle right now. 

The doctor is trying his best not to get to a point where he’s hurting Michael, but Michael can already feel himself aching and bruising (although it takes nothing away from how very good he feels right now). He pushes his hips back against his doctor, arching his back a little to do it. He’s full and there’s a head on him and another hand on his inner thigh and oh god there’s so many feelings at once.

“Michael.”

He opens his eyes; Michael.

That’s his name.

The doctor’s voice is dead quiet as he speaks to try and hide the vulnerability he’s sharing. “Promise me you won’t leave again.”

Doctor David doesn’t stop, but Michael feels the world freeze. His heart weighs heavy under his newfound sense of guilt. He wants to turn around and just hold him; that is the Michael in him. He wants to care about people, and be cared for.

“I promise.” He whispers back to him, turning his head just to meet his eyes. 

They take solace in each other’s company for the first time. Doctor David doesn’t show his shame, but he pulls up out of Michael’s eyeline quickly. Michael can feel the doctor get closer and closer to finishing (and he is too). 

The doctor’s hand starts to lose it’s pristine sense of utter control, and that’s how Michael knows he is starting to cum. He’s already started on his own too, and now he doesn’t care about finishing; he’s only concerned with doing something with his doctor. He doesn’t even focus on the waves rolling through his body, just feeling the fingers digging into his skin.

The doctor stills, and as the pleasure wears off, Michael can feel the exhaustion start to take over. There is a sudden cold and emptiness, and then there are hands freeing his own; he rolls over onto his back, now realizing how much stress this position has put on his ribs. 

The doctor is sitting on his knees looking down at Michael; either his own movements or a sloppy re-attachment have lodged his face loose. Michael can see the seam is bigger, much more noticeable than before. He doesn’t ask before he sits back up, reaching for it. This time, the doctor doesn’t stop him.

Michael takes his face off slowly this time, taking the time to really see what’s underneath. It is still just… flesh without eyes or a nose, just a pair of pursed lips. Michael sets the skin in his hand aside, and is careful not to let even the slightest judgement show in his face. It’s easier than he thinks. Maybe he’s not judging.

He takes the doctor’s ‘face’ in his hands and leans in, placing lips on lips. Doctor David seems still and unsure at first, but it is not long before he wraps his hands around Michael’s waist and returns the kiss. This is new for both of them.

Michael doesn’t know how long they do this for; the seconds begin to melt into each other and soon it has been a lifetime. The doctor is the one who pulls away and Michael is staring straight back into flesh again. 

“Sleep.” The voice is different when the face is off, but only in a very slight way. It’s different in a way somebody could only notice if they had spent time memorizing his voice. “You deserve it.”

Michael lies back down, and he doesn’t stay awake long enough to see if the doctor spends the night with him.


End file.
